


auditory memory

by SearchingforSerendipity



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Edith Crawley is a BAMF, F/M, Music as feelings, she tries so hard, this is before Bertie wakes up and gains a spine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-23
Updated: 2016-06-23
Packaged: 2018-07-16 20:44:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7284067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SearchingforSerendipity/pseuds/SearchingforSerendipity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>That is the problem with treasures: they weight you down, more and more, sink down ships and promises alike. Edith learned that the hard way, the way she learned everything, really.<em></em></em><br/> </p><p>  Edith, though she hardly feels capable of it, is determined to teach her daughter all she knows. She starts with the piano and goes from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	auditory memory

She has a piano now.

(she will have four pianos, one day, five counting the one in the servant's quarters, but that dah is far away) This one was Michael's and will one day be Marigold's. If she can give nothing more of her father to her darling girl it will be this.

But for now it is hers, the piano and the flat, with the gramophone they danced to late into the night, the bed they made love in, that terribly ugly china service Michael kept because it was a gift from his favorite aunt. And the memories, the memories are all hers.

In her long, lonely, often disastrous life, Edith had learned the value of possession, how to measure worth based on how much you don't want to part with it. It is this way with secrets, with beaus, pretty jewels Mary had always been quick to appropriate because 'she would look better in them anyway'. It is never a lie, but it hurts, always.

It hurts also, more so, to hoard, hurts her and Bertie and every one that gets too close. That is the problem with treasures: they weight you down, more and more, sink down ships and promises alike. The problem with precious things is that you have to share them, one day. Edith learned that the hard way, the way she learned everything, really.

She doesn't want her daughter to be as selfish as her, that's the thing. Doesn't want her to be afraid of sharing.

Out of all the Crawley Girls, it was Sybil who had the most talent for music and Mary that cared the least for it. Edith cared and practiced, had a good ear for melodies, but her fingers weren't as deft as Sybil's, who had hands made for music and bandaging bleeding soldier boys. Edith's hands are long, crooked fingers topped by nails pink like seashells. They tripped over themselves for months until Mary's criticisms dug too deeply. She was never as praised as her sisters in any case, and she couldn't stand the injustice of it much longer.

The pianos of Downtown were left to gather dust after that. She was certain her musical skills had taken the same turn but her fingers prove her wrong. They, like so many things in this flat, remember.

Edith lets them rest for a moment in the keys, runs them through the long ivory ones to the little ebony ones with experimental pressure.

She startles. Marigold had followed her example, as she always does, and is now hammering her open hands in the keys. The little girl blinks at the noise, looks at her mother wide-eyed. Then she claps, laughs delightedly.

Edith laughs with her, helpless with love. Her eyes are full of water. She kisses her daughter's hair and let's herself think, for one second, how happy Michael would be right now, seeing them like this. Let's herself think how much better he would be at teaching their child the piano, at everything. Let's herself breathe, laugh, sob quietly.

"Very good, darling. What a talented girl you are."

Marigold grins, accepting her kiss with good grace. This time when she goes to bash the keys some more Edith takes her daughter's hands in hers, spreads her fingers, and teaches her how to make sound beautiful, one moment at a time.

  
(edith will stop teaching marigold the piano, later. it will be a necessary skill for a marquis' ward, in which she will be taught with the best of tutors, because by then bertie will love her as his own and the children he will have by edith will love to hear their sister playing. there will be a hundred things for the lady hexham to do, and always one more forgotten at the worst time. teaching marigold piano will be just one in many scrawled out of the list, a sequence of tiring, well-worth-it sacrifices.

marigold never stops playing, though. she will give herself to the pieces with focus and talent that certainly didn't come from edith's side of the family, and it will not be just edith calling her a _virtuosa_ , a prodigy. it will be her first and most enduring love, the path that will shape her life and the mark she will leave on the world. one day marigold the ward will be marigold the pianist, the musician, the one crowds come together to listen to and sigh at. her name will mean hard work and creativity and barriers pushed, shattered.

but still, sometimes, often, she will look up at her mama and ask for help or company. brancaster castle will echo with the sound of duets and happy laughter, memories that settle and grow beyond their origins.

but that comes later, later.)

 


End file.
